


Good Friends, Even in Sickness

by Calacious



Category: General Hospital
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Gift Fic, Hospital Visit, Hurt/Comfort, Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 12:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7532584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spinelli is struck with a sudden illness, and collapses on the way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Friends, Even in Sickness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suerum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suerum/gifts).



> Set several years ago, before the merger of soaps, and well before what is currently happening on the show. Features the Jason that was portrayed by Steve Burton.
> 
> Written as a birthday gift for Suerum. I hope that you like it. 
> 
> Please forgive my errors; it has been awhile.

Head hammering, and stomach steadily mounting a rebellion, Spinelli concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, and not falling. He knew that it was just a matter of time before his body failed him, and he wound up falling face first on the ground, but he had to at least try to make it home before that happened. 

He couldn't remember the last time that he'd been this sick. No hangover had ever felt like this, and he couldn't remember his childhood illnesses taking this much out of him. 

It had come on suddenly. One minute he'd been just fine, researching something for Jason, and the next, his head felt too heavy to hold up, and his stomach felt like it was housing several sets of knitting needles warring to complete the same sweater. 

In a word, he felt like crap. Worse than crap. He felt that if death was just a step away from him, he'd welcome the Dark Reaper's embrace wholeheartedly.

Spinelli fumbled with his cell phone, almost dropping it before giving up his quest of making a call or sending a text for help, and put his phone back in his pocket. He was still several blocks away from home, and he had no idea how he'd make it that far without collapsing. 

Clutching the strap of his shoulder bag for a semblance of support, Spinelli stumbled forward. His head was in a fog, and he couldn't see straight, but he couldn't stop walking. He had to keep going. 

'What would Stone Cold do?' Spinelli asked himself. 'WWSCD?'

Scowling at the brightness of the streetlights that had just turned on, Spinelli plowed forward, head bent, eyes focused, as well as they could be, on his feet. 

The sun had set not too long ago, dusk had settled in, and Spinelli knew that it was only a matter of time before the city streets became busy with those who were eager to indulge in Port Charles' night time activities. He just hoped that he'd make it home before the sidewalks started bustling with loud, happy people on their way out to dinner, or the movies. He didn't think his head, or stomach, could take it.

A horn honked, and Spinelli groaned, hands clutching at his head until the dizzying reverberations stopped. He closed his eyes, and focused on breathing in and out through his nose, and regretted it immediately.

The commingling odors of the city -- garbage, gasoline, oil, salt air, fish, and other putrid scents that Spinelli could not even hope to name -- were enough to make him gag, and it was all that Spinelli could do not to spill the contents of his stomach out onto the sidewalk, adding them to the malodorous smells that already surrounded him. 

Opening his mouth, Spinelli breathed in and out to a slow count of ten, until his stomach clenching stopped, and the pounding in his head resumed the regular, staccato rhythm from earlier. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than it had been, and, uncurling from the slumped over position that he'd assumed at the honking of the horn,  Spinelli started his forward march home.

Each shuffling step felt like a monumental effort, and, though the summer air was warm, and humid, he felt shivery and cold. Spinelli leaned against a lamppost, telling himself that it was just for a moment, and closed his eyes in an attempt to garner the will to keep walking. His legs did not want to cooperate. 

Hell, he'd get down on his hands and knees and crawl the rest of the way home if he could get his body to move from where it was. His arms refused to help in the effort to push away from the lamppost though, and his eyes were flat out determined not to open, no matter how much he begged them to do so.

His head was quite content to call the metal casing of the lamppost a pillow, and bed down, three blocks from home, for the remainder of the night. He couldn't move if he wanted to, and Spinelli was starting to think that resting against the lamppost was a very good idea, and that, if he could get his legs to fold just right, curling up around the lamppost and taking a nap right here was a stellar idea. 

'The Jackal is a genius,' Spinelli thought, and he let his legs fold, and slumped down around the base of the lamppost, wrapping his arms around it. 

The ground wasn't overly soft, or hard, it didn't make the world stop spinning, but it did ease some of the throbbing in his head, and it made his stomach happier than it had been a few seconds earlier, which was a plus. A major plus in Spinelli's book of pluses, which didn't actually exist, but, provided that he survived this experience, he'd create such a book, and this would be the first entry in it. 

'Lying down at the base of a lamppost, in the middle of the city to help ease dizziness and stomach ache. Plus.' 

Sighing, Spinelli let his mind drift, completely oblivious to the fact that he was being observed by several concerned citizens, one of whom was sticking closely to the shadows. 

The hidden man frowned, and quickly pulled out a cell phone. He frantically scrolled through his list of contacts before choosing the correct one and clicking the send call button. 

"Hey, Jason, it's Johnny," Johnny said in a quiet voice. 

He hid further in the shadows, and kept an eye on Spinelli. The young man did not look well at all. His skin was covered in a sheen of sweat that plastered his hair to his forehead, and he was so pale that he practically glowed beneath the light of the lamppost. Thankfully, while several passersby stopped to look at Spinelli before passing on, muttering words that Johnny could not hear, none of them seemed all that interested in picking through Spinelli's pockets, though none of them seemed interested in helping the young man out either. 

Johnny shook himself from his observations when Jason's voice rumbled in his ear, demanding a reason for the call. Taking a deep breath, and knowing that he really had only one shot at this before Jason hung up on him, and concerned about the well-being of Spinelli, in spite of the fact that the young man didn't think too highly of him, Johnny gave Jason the street number, and explained that Spinelli had collapsed. 

"He doesn't look good, Jason," Johnny said.

Choking back a laugh when Jason accused him of doing something to Spinelli, Johnny said, "I didn't lay a finger on him. Just come collect your precious grasshopper before someone else does." 

Johnny didn't remember where he'd heard the term grasshopper applied to Spinelli, but he'd heard it somewhere, and it seemed to fit the situation at hand. Cutting Jason off mid-curse, Johnny hung up, and slipped his phone back into his pocket, and, making sure that his temporary hideaway was secure, he waited and watched. He'd intervene if anyone attempted to harm Spinelli. Not that he owed Spinelli anything, but there might come a time when it would be handy for him to have something to hold over Spinelli, and Jason. 

Smiling at the tire screech that came a few minutes later, as Jason pulled to an abrupt stop just a few feet from where Spinelli lay curled around the lamppost, Johnny slunk away into the night, leaving Spinelli to Jason's care. He'd done his good deed for the day, and there was no point in sticking around where he wasn't wanted. He wondered, briefly, if Jason would ever tell Spinelli about the call, and then dismissed the thought as irrelevant. It didn't matter what Jason told Spinelli, if anything, about how he'd found him in the middle of town. 

Jason's blood ran cold at Johnny's whispered words. He'd expected the young hacker home at least an hour ago, but hadn't heard from him, and was just about to call, to see if he'd gotten caught up in work, or in something else when the call from Johnny came. 

Johnny, as per usual, had been cryptic, and had actually had the audacity to laugh when Jason had questioned him about Spinelli. It didn't sit easy with Jason, the thought that Johnny could be doing anything to Spinelli while Jason was racing through the streets to find him, was something that Jason didn't even want to think about. 

There was no love lost between him and Johnny, but Jason couldn't think of any reason why the thug would want to hurt Spinelli. Spinelli, to Jason's knowledge, hadn't done anything to the other man, and he couldn't think of any reason why Johnny would hurt Spinelli to get at him. 

Revenge, while not completely out of the question, wasn't Johnny's speed. Eliminating that from the equation did little to ease Jason's worry for his friend. According to Johnny, if he'd been speaking the truth, Spinelli had collapsed, and didn't look well. 

Jason wracked his brain for what could've happened to Spinelli in the space of the ten hours since he'd last seen him. He'd been fine, chipper even, when he'd said goodbye to Jason earlier that day, heading off to research something on his laptop. He'd wanted a change of scenery, and had gone to some cafe by the wharf. 

Jason suspected that there was a girl in the mix, but Spinelli hadn't been very forthcoming, and Jason thought that Spinelli might still be hung up on Maxie, though for the life of him, he couldn't understand why. Maxie would never treat Spinelli the way he deserved to be treated. Spinelli was just too blind to see it, or maybe he didn't believe he deserved to be treated better. Whatever the case, Jason hoped that there was another girl that kept bringing Spinelli back to the cafe on the wharf that he'd been frequenting recently. 

Accident prone as he was, Jason hoped that Spinelli hadn't gotten caught in the middle of a fight, or worse. He'd once accidentally shot himself in the foot. Anything was possible, which was what terrified Jason as he neared the street that Johnny had mentioned, and saw a figure slumped at the base of a lamppost. 

The shock of dark hair, and the ever present messenger bag was all the proof that Jason needed that he'd found Spinelli, right where Johnny had said he'd be, still body wrapped around a streetlight. 

Jason's heart jumped into his throat, and he pulled the SUV to a screeching halt beside the road, not caring about the horns that honked in his wake, or the angry fists that were waved in his direction. He didn't hear or see any of them, not in light of what he saw. Spinelli looked so small and frail by the light of the lamp, and Jason couldn't tell whether or not Spinelli was breathing. 

Uncaring about the steady traffic, and the litany of horns that accompanied his actions, Jason threw the driver's side door open, and leaped from the vehicle. His legs felt like jelly, and his heart thundered as he approached his downed friend. 

"Spinelli." Jason knelt beside his friend, and was alarmed at how pale he was, and that Spinelli seemed to be completely unaware. The young man did not respond to his name, and didn't respond when Jason gently shook his shoulder. 

Jason pressed shaky fingers to Spinelli's neck, and searched for a pulse, sighing in relief when he found a steady heartbeat throbbing beneath his fingertips. Spinelli's skin was hot and clammy to the touch, and his skin, while pale, was blotchy. Whatever had happened to him, it hadn't been Johnny's work, and while that eased some of Jason's worry for his friend, it also offered him no answers for what had actually happened to Spinelli, and why he'd collapsed while, presumably, on his way home. 

"What happened?" Jason asked the still figure of his friend, breathing easier when he saw, by the steady movement of Spinelli's chest, that his friend's breathing was not compromised by whatever had befallen him. 

Jason pressed the back of his hand against Spinelli's forehead and cheeks, grimacing at the heat that was emanating from his friend. "Damn, you're burning up."

Gently rolling Spinelli onto his back, Jason eased Spinelli into his arms, and carried him to the waiting SUV, carefully shielding his head as he buckled him into the passenger's seat. Spinelli moaned, and his eyelids fluttered, but he didn't fully wake as Jason hurried around to the other side, and put the vehicle into gear, speeding to the hospital. 

The ER was bustling when Jason carried Spinelli in through the double doors. Though he was starting to rouse, mumbling words that Jason couldn't quite catch, he was still unconscious, and his fever seemed to have gotten worse in the short time that it took Jason to reach the hospital.

"Nurse! I need some help here." Jason caught the arm of the nearest nurse, demanding that Spinelli be seen now, not later. 

"He's burning up, and he's been unconscious," Jason blurted out answers for questions that he'd not yet been asked, more worried than he'd been in a long time.

"Sir, I understand that you're concerned for your--"

"Friend," Jason supplied. "He's a good friend."

"I understand that you're worried about your friend, but he'll have to wait his turn," the nurse said, and she removed her arm from Jason's grip. 

She hurried away, and Jason, reluctantly signed in at the front desk, and sat down in one of the uncomfortable chairs with Spinelli in his lap. Time lost meaning as Spinelli's eyelids continued to flutter, and the young man moaned and muttered incomprehensibly in his fevered state. Jason's worry grew as the busy ER continued to operate around him, oblivious to him and Spinelli. 

Just as he was about to give up, and take Spinelli somewhere else, Spinelli's name was called, and unaware of the looks that his actions garnered, Jason carried Spinelli back into one of the examination rooms, settling him on a bed, and sitting down in another uncomfortable chair next to his friend. He gripped Spinelli's hand, and, as his friend was examined, kept half of his attention on what the intern was doing and saying, and the rest of it on Spinelli, who, now that he was being poked and prodded, was starting to come to.

Confused and still feeling horribly ill, Spinelli fought against a pair of hands that seemed intent on doing him harm. He didn't understand what was going on, and his vision was blurry, the lights of wherever he was were too bright, and he just wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, but the hands were insistent, and he hurt, all over. 

It was impossible to return to the peaceful bliss of slumber with the hands, and the sense of wrongness that they brought. Something had happened, but Spinelli's head hurt too much for him to even begin to think about what that was, and why he needed to get home. 

He tried to tell the owner of the hands that he needed to go home, but his words came out jumbled, and then his stomach lurched, and his head was spinning, and he was retching. Throat raw and aching, and head pounding out a sickening, brutal rhythm, Spinelli moaned and fought harder against the hands that refused to let him go. 

"He's combative," a voice said, and, while Spinelli understood the words, he didn't understand what they meant, or why they were being said, or who was saying them, or what they had to do with him. Why wouldn't the hands release him?

"Evil hands of --" Spinelli slurred, unable to finish his thought as another pair of hands, large, calloused, familiar, entered the fray, and Spinelli was secured against a strong, broad chest. 

"Stone Cold," Spinelli breathed out, and he stopped fighting the hands, and settled against Stone Cold's chest, placing a hand on Stone Cold's arm to anchor himself, because he felt like he was swimming in a whirlpool that was trying to drown him. 

Spinelli concentrated, not on the hands that were still poking and prodding him, not on the sharp stinging pain that went into the upper quadrant of his left arm, but on the steady rise and fall of Stone Cold's chest, and the sturdy beat of the man's heart. He sighed in relief as some of the aches and pains eased, and the world stopped spinning, and the hands finally stopped their assault on his person. 

The murmuring of voices nearby -- Stone Cold's thundering through his chest, and into Spinelli's body -- was a comforting background to the slowly steadying waves that Spinelli felt he was being rocked on. He was floating, safe and secure, for the first time in what felt like forever. 

"C'mon, let's get you home," Stone Cold's words reverberated through Spinelli, and Spinelli tried to speak, but his words came out mangled, but it didn't seem to matter, because, before he could muster the strength to try again, he was being lifted.

Knowing that he was home, in a manner of speaking, in Stone Cold's arms, Spinelli let the world slip away once again, and sighing, rested his head against Stone Cold's chest. His head was no longer hammering, and his stomach felt calm.

When he next woke, it was to find Stone Cold, slumped at the foot of his bed, an arsenal of medicine, water, and juice bottles within easy reach, his hand gripping one of Spinelli's. Stone Cold was sleeping, soft snores punctuating his breaths. 

Smiling, and feeling much better, Spinelli hunkered down beneath his covers, and closed his eyes again. Just to rest them this time. He squeezed Stone Cold's hand, and marveled at his good fortune in having found such a great friend in Stone Cold, unaware that, even in his sleep, Stone Cold was dreaming something along the same lines. 

 


End file.
